


Blackjack

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gambling, Kinky, Naked Blackjack, Seduction, Slow Build, Teasing, Voyeurism, absolute filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: Blackjack, in theory is simple. Blackjack with Cocky Rossi himself?She’d rather face off with Reid again. There’s less of a chance of her getting fucked.





	Blackjack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greeneyedconstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedconstellations/gifts).



> Disclaimer that this is UTTER FILTH and that I don't know shit about playing blackjack.

Emily’s a chess player. Card games are not her forte. And she’s not stupid—she’s on a team with Mr. Vegas himself, SSA Aaron Poker-Face, and David ‘Cocky’ Rossi. She just hasn’t had the chance to improve her game. Now chess, that’s strategy. It doesn’t matter if your opponent is unreadable or distracting or just downright disarming; Reid can look as innocent as he wants over the other side of a chessboard, she’s still gonna kick his skinny white butt back to 1600. Genius is nothing without savvy. Card games are luck, and she’s always been shit out of that.

Blackjack, in theory is simple. Blackjack with Cocky Rossi himself?

She’d rather face off with Reid again. There’s less of a chance of her getting fucked.

It’s simple enough, in theory. He deals. She’s the player. She’s playing against him with the two cards he hands her. If she goes over, she loses, he wins. Simple.

“I never lose,” he’d begun the night with announcing. Since he’s poured her a generous amount of some of his best wine, has the smoothest music she’s heard all week playing, and has the heat cranked right at the point where they’ll be more comfortable in less, she assumes he’s playing the long game. She’s fine with that. He’s her friend, her co-worker, her companion, and, most importantly, he’s terrific in bed.

If they ever actually get there.

“I hate card games,” she admits shortly after, when she’s on a losing streak that he doesn’t seem keen on letting her break.

“Let’s spice it up then,” he says, not unexpectedly. This is probably the part of the night she should start mentally referring to him as _Dave_ and not _Rossi._ They’re sitting on his rug like children playing Candyland, the cards between them and cushions scattered around. For a single man, he has a fuckton of useless cushions. More than her, which isn’t hard, as she’s a firm believer in function over farce. Although, to be fair, they’re useful enough. Her knees aren’t sore, but that might be the wine. Or his _incredibly_ plush and no doubt grossly expensive rugs.

The bets begin simply enough, but they always do. She plays along. It’s been long enough since they chanced a roll in the sheets that she’s amped up already and he’s in for a nice surprise when he inevitably suggests—

“It just wouldn’t be a drunken night of immaturity without us losing our clothes, would it?” he says. She sighs. And, of course, busts a fifteen to his twenty. “Are we matching tonight, Emily?”

Her shirt hits the floor. That asshole cranked the heat so she’s already at a disadvantage. But she _was_ a undercover operative and, so, she simply smiles coolly, hooks a finger through the silky blue-black lace of her bra-strap, and readjusts carefully in front of him, watching his gaze settle on her tits like a man who knows exactly he wants to be looking. “Keep winning if you want an answer to _that_ ,” she replies. He laughs. A low, dark laugh, and she’s already mentally hearing him crow when he wins enough to find out that she’s as matching as he’s clearly imagining.

This won’t be the first time they’d fucked and it won’t be the last, but it’s certainly going to be the most tedious if the build-up remains half as slow as what he seems to intend.

He loses. He’s not shy—the trousers go first and, of course, he’s a briefs man. She pretends to ignore the fact that they don’t exactly leave a lot to the imagination. He loses again, and she’s pretty sure he’s cheating because he looks way too damn pleased as he loses the shirt. If he wasn’t so vain, she’s sure he’d have taken the briefs off first, except he likely can’t bear to lose face by looking ridiculous with his shirt draped over his cock.

If she wasn’t ready before, the bottle is almost empty and she’s hoping he ends this soon. But he doesn’t. He never does. He’s such a fucking _tease_.

She loses, once. It’s a delight to take her time with her trouser button, reclining on the carpet with her back to his leather couch—she hates the thing, but it’s ostentatious enough that it fits here, honestly—and undoing her button with painful care. A little bit of payback. He watches her silently, wineglass in hand and swirling it slowly with his eyes on her face. Back and forth the liquid goes, until she pauses and the button pops loose. Fingers hooked teasingly under the waistband and the slight v shape of the open button, she stops there.

“Need a hand?” he asks.

“Not from an old perve like you,” she counters.

He scoots over the cards, knocking a stack with his knee and sending the slick pile skidding. It would look ridiculous, him shuffling over on his hands and knees, but it also gives her a fantastic view down his back and to his navy-clad ass. One that she’s given more chance to appreciate as he dips without a how-do-you-do and nuzzles his nose against her belly. She twitches with surprise and twitches again with anticipation as he follows a dip in the instrumental music—the music reminds Emily of her mother, which is an unfortunate association when she has a man twenty-years her senior crouched in her lap breathing warmth into the crotch of her too-thin just-thin-enough business slacks. He stays there, breathing intently, before dipping forward and pressing his mouth against the seam. His eyes flick up to meet hers, and they’re wicked.

“Slut,” she tells him, tipping her hips up nonetheless so he can put that nice, warm pressure in all the right kinds of places, feeling her wine-soaked head and her hormone soaked body tip with the simple movement as she flushes cold and then twice as hot and counters with a wet rush between her hips.

He doesn’t answer because he has her zip in his careful teeth and he’s tugging it down before scooching closer and sitting upright. The little v of her undone button is now a wider V of her undone fly, and he hooks two fingers in and slips them down to trace the centre line of her panties. “Matching,” he says happily, and she rolls her eyes at the glint of delight in his dark eyes, before murmuring, “and _wanting_ ,” as he rubs along that line and pulls his fingers away damp despite the silk between them.

“I’ve changed my mind.” She smirks, knowing he’s going to whine and knowing he’ll kiss her anyway. “I think I’ll keep the pants.” And while he was busy down there, she’s unsnapped her bra and let it slip free, hooking it off and throwing it unceremoniously to the side.

Bushy eyebrows lift. She considers teasing him about them, but then that cocky mouth is closing around a nipple and she looks down with an _oh_ to his salt-and-pepper hair against her chest, his hand dipping back down into her pants, the breast without a Dave attached, peaked and waiting for attention. She knows this is just a taste—he’s not done teasing yet—so she brings the hand she’s not using to brace herself upright and slides her own thumb against it, watching it stiffen.

Speaking of stiffening. Her hips are rolling up entirely without her consent now, his fingers tracing delicious patterns around her clit with her panties still between them. He switches tit with a soft, _lovely_ , so she takes that as permission to reach down and skate her palm against the growing bump on the front of his briefs.

“Not at full attention yet,” she teases him, amusing herself by outlining the semi-hard length with her palm until he pulls away with a _pa_ of lips leaving wet skin and moves up to her mouth. He kisses her first, a little scruffy and very reserved, considering his fingers are now sliding along the line where panty meets flesh and threatening to dip within on their own private adventure. She closes her eyes and melts under it anyway. He’s slower to get going, but he knows she’s quick to respond. It works well. He’ll get her off plenty of times before his mind turns to his own pleasure, and by then she’s usually so pliable and fucked-out that she’ll do anything his devious mind asks of her.

“Taller man takes longer to rise than a shorter one,” he says pertly as he breaks away, and she almost groans. Deviant. But he’s not lying. She’s never been one for size over utility, but if she was, she wouldn’t be disappointed here. “Now, I think we were getting somewhere.’

“Naked, mostly.” She’s cheeky but left cold as he slips away and back to his spot, collecting his fallen cards and shuffling them with a strangely soothing _sh-sh-sh-sh-sh_ of the sleek surfaces brushing together. It’s a sound she could fall asleep to, and she wonders why that is. Wonders, for a moment, if it would have the same effect on, say, Reid.

They keep playing. The rush of arousal fades and leaves her just tipsy. She manages to keep winning which is good because she only has two loses until she has nothing left to strip. Dave takes his socks off next, one at a time, and she lets him have that. Time honoured tradition.

“Something different,” he says suddenly, pausing in the deal. A clock chimes somewhere but she’s too focused on him to notice what hour, and they’re three bottles in. He readjusts and her eyes skitter to his crotch. Despite them doing nothing but bantering and playing, he’s harder than he was before. “A dare, perhaps.”

When drunk, she’s easily distracted. It takes her a moment to switch to what he’s saying because falling from her lips is already the statement: “You’re aroused.”

A smirk is her reply. It’s a smirk she’s gotten plenty of times at work and it’s just as aggravating at home. “I blame the wine,” he says, mouth twitching upright. She wants to kiss him again. “Okay, not a dare. If I win this round, I get…” The music shifts to a new track, something slow and uncoiling: “…a dance.”

Oh. That sounds… she pictures his hands on her, guiding her, and smiles. “Deal,” she says, and he does. She’s pretty confident. Her hand is two fours.

“Do you want to buy-in?” he teases.

Sure. Why not. “Double it,” she replies, leaning forward. “If I win… I get to pick the music.” He looks unsure. “But if you do, you get to touch.”

He just smiles and deals again. And wins, the bastard. She’s not overly disappointed.

He gets one dance. It’s a slow dance, because of course it is, but they don’t dance in rhythm. They barely dance at all. They find their feet and they find a bare patch of floor and he whirls her around twice before they’re both reminded that they’ve had a fair fuckton of wine and decide not to whirl anymore. And, despite her offer, he doesn’t push. “I said you can touch me anywhere,” she reminds him, because his hands haven’t left her sides where they’re tracing lazy lines from hip upwards.

“I’m touching what I want to,” he replies, and kisses her. This isn’t the chaste kiss from before. It doesn’t match his gentle hands at all. As the music quickens slightly, he kisses like he fucks: hard and wet and demanding until she can’t breathe because he’s everywhere she tries to be and his mouth is relentless and oh so fucking good at what it does. She thinks, as they break apart with swollen lips and hooded eyes, that she probably just crested a little just on that.

Dave loves seduction and he’s good at it. She’ll be a puddle by the end of a night. Is pretty sure she is one already. He shamelessly adjusts himself as they make their unsteady way back to the rug at the end of the dance, and she wishes she’d taken her own advice and touched, just a little. Maybe goaded him beyond this point and into the next stage, whatever he’s planning.

She’d beat him at a chess-game, loses unless he lets her win at blackjack, wouldn’t touch him in poker, and she’s helpless when he’s intent on arousing her. Lucky she can still outshoot him, or she’d be sorely outclassed and with way too much pride to admit it.

He wins again. Of course he does—the house _always_ wins he tells her. She goes plus seventeen and he can barely contain his glee. It’s past midnight. They’re stupid now.

 _Always wins_ , he says again, and asks her to tell him one of her fantasies. Not a tame one, not a quiet one. It’s past midnight and he’s stupid too—he tells her, “Tell me the one that makes you come like nothing else,” and she accuses him of trying to turn her on.

“You’re already turned on,” he replies, and he’s not wrong. She’s fuck him right now if he’d let her. Shit, she’d fuck _herself_ right now if there was no guarantee of him putting out. Fuck her fingers right in front of him on his pretty, over-expensive rug until she came with someone else’s name on her lips just to show him she doesn’t need his gorgeous cock to feel good.

“You’re just trying to turn _yourself_ on,” she counters, and hopes he can’t see her tensing her thigh muscles to tease herself just a little.

He leans closer. His eyes are dark. His hand curls into his lap and cup the hard, insistent length pressing up into it. “Too late,” he rumbles in a voice like he’d fuck himself too if she wasn’t here to want him, “now tell.”

Gambling like this is addictive.

The wine is thick and bubbles in her stomach and warms her blood and cunt all at once. Maybe that’s why she tells him. Maybe it’s a little bit also because she trusts him; maybe it’s because she knows he has a remote-controlled vibrator upstairs in a drawer he keeps just for them; maybe she knows it’s because he has the balls to use it on her, one day.

In her fantasy, she’s at work. She has him as soon as she says this, and she knows as soon as he groans a little and adjusts his posture that it must be one of his too. She’s at work. _Wearing what_ , he asks, and she’s never bothered to care about that but she adds a detail just for him—red dress, professional. Classy. Easy access if she needs it. She’s at work in her red dress, sitting at her desk. She’s doing paperwork, Reid is in his seat barely two feet away from her. Morgan’s behind them at his desk. JJ is by the photocopier. Dave, in his office; Hotch in his too. _You see,_ she says softly, _where everyone is is very important._

“Are they involved?” he asks, and she shivers, flushes hot and wet, and says _yes_.

She’s at work with her red dress and her co-workers, and there’s a remote-controlled vibe hidden inside that pretty red dress with Hotch’s finger on the button that makes her go.

 _Fuck,_ he says. _What the fuck,_ but wonderingly.

He gets it. It’s not that Hotch turns her on—although he does, but that’s because she’s a woman with working eyes and he’s a damn pretty sight for anyone—it’s that he’s the _naughtiest._ JJ would do it to be cheeky—they’d have wonderful, friendly sex and then get drunk after and never try again because it was too much bother and being friends was simpler. Morgan would enjoy the power too much. She likes giving up control, but only to men who are awed that she gives it to them. Reid would never give her the control. She bets he’s the type to say _thank you_ midway through sucking his cock. She bets he’s the type to fall in love mid-fuck. Hotch? Making Hotch do something so undeniably unprofessional at work—knowing he’s up in his office with that button and his cock hard and his face expressionless? God, that’s good. Thinking about him getting himself off on it though? Still at work, under that desk, holding the button down as he…

She almost comes just telling Dave about it.

And then she does come, because Dave asks _do the others know_ and she’s forced to admit _yes_ , because that’s the bit that gets her off the most but always makes her feel dirty for doing so. They know. They all know. JJ smiles and little and goes home that night to fuck her husband senseless while thinking about it. Morgan is jealous and excuses himself because he’s thinking of fucking her right there as though to claim her. Reid is too shy to react, too awkward to leave, too turned on to think. He sits there and listens until her micro-expressions give away that she’s on the edge, and then he comes in his pants listening to her toppling over.

“You kinky little shit,” Dave breathes, but she snorts and shivers as a roll of mini-orgasms work their way up her spine, leaving her dizzy and hungry for more.

“The number of times I’ve gotten you off in my fantasies, you should be thankful,” she tells him. “I always let you watch. Don’t you dare!” She’s stopped him just in time, his hand skirting downwards. That’s not part of the game; not yet.

Soon.

They play on. She finally wins one. They deal in again and place bets—clothes off of course, because they’re both hopelessly horny at this point. Emily grins and tells him she’s doubling. He looks nervous. Bad day for the house, about to be amazing for her.

“If I win… we both lose our underwear…” His face lights up with a side of suspicion and that’s sensible, because she’s not done: “…and you put mine on instead.” Flummoxed, he stares at her blankly. She sweetens the deal, spreading out luxuriously on his plush carpeting with her bare legs thrown out whorishly, and slips a palm down between them. Rolls it gently over her panties and when it comes away, his eyes are locked on the dark, damp line down the middle. “I’ve gotten them… ready for you.” His cock twitches with interest, thickening as she watches, and he nods.

Deal.

She flips her cards. Seventeen. She flicks them down and saunters to her feet, hip bumped outwards provocatively. Two pinkies—one on either side—and she works her panties down, slowly slowly slowy. His eyes are locked on her so she gives him a show, inching closer until she’s close enough that he can wordlessly take over. He uses his teeth. What a lad. Slides her panties down with his eyes locked on her through his dark lashes until she can step out of them and leaves him to stumble his way up, the navy fabric crushed in one hand. He doesn’t fuck around. His briefs hit the ground and she has a tantalizing moment of his dick bouncing free to join the party before he’s shimmying into her panties, only pausing for a moment to trace a wondering thumb along them. And then he’s in and she can barely stop from laughing, even as she presses her legs together to try to drown out the insistent throb of _empty_ sounding out from her cunt.

He barely fits. He looks ridiculous. The head of his cock is pinned by the lace against his abdomen and he’s bulging the front out, all crammed in tight and pretty, but it’s worth it because the look on his face is pure sex. For the first time tonight, he’s teetering on losing control. She kneels with her legs folded tight—openly naked without letting him see anything of what he wants to see as he stands in front of her horny and confused by just _how_ horny, his hands dangling awkwardly by his side.

“They’re not easy to get on when they’re wet, are they?” she asks quietly, feeling another flush hit as his cock openly twitches in front of her. He’s at eye-height to her; she could lean forward and lick him. She does. Slowly, leaving a darker line on the already damp silk. He groans, _Emily, shit_ , and leans back and runs her tongue over lips as she peers up at him. “You like this?”

He shakes his head and, when he speaks, his voice is fucked: “I love this. Love you.” She knows he means _love_ in the carnal sense, but it’s nice to be appreciated.

“Details, Dave,” she says in her ‘agent’ voice, and he almost brings a hand to his front as though to readjust before realizing what he’s doing. “If you’re good and… specific… you can touch while you tell me. I bet you’re dying to feel just how wet they are, to rub them against yourself…”

“Fuck,” he rasps out, and then launches into a spiel that’s broken and breathy and only increasing in both as he works himself up helplessly. “I love feeling how much I’ve turned you on. Knowing I’ve done this. Feeling this, so clearly—”

His hand is still hovering awkwardly, so she murmurs, “Feeling what?” and is rewarded by him tracing his fingers along his cock, along her panties, clearly intending on drawing attention to where she’s made them slick.

“This,” he repeats, rolling his hips forward into his hand. “This, _oh_ , now I can feel it… oh…” He’s forgotten himself. He’s touching himself. She stares greedily as he openly begins to stroke himself through her panties, his mouth opening and closing, before breathily continuing: “Knowing I’m going to lay you down and spread you open and fuck you good, so good, and you’ll be so needy by then. So much needier than this. You’re probably already getting there, watching me do this…”His hand slides down, finding his balls and tugging the panties aside to touch them just how he likes, before moving back up in a slow line—still pulling the panties to the side—and tugging his cock free. Before she can complain, he’s stroking it fast, long, the end slick and hard and close enough that she can smell it, smell how turned on he is: “Watching me do this while thinking of you. And before, _Jesus_ , when you talked about what you’d let Aaron do to you… I could come thinking about that. I could, so easily…” His eyes are closed. He’s lost. She’s lost. She leans closer and touches his wrist with her hand, stalling his movements. When he pauses, she bumps her nose against his cock. Mouths at it. Licks a line up it. He’s staring at her: “Can you taste yourself?”

She can. She nods. He swears and falls to his knees, his mouth crashing against hers as he practically boosts her onto his lap. They’re so lost in kissing, in their hands, that she automatically wraps her legs around his sides as he pulls her down onto his lap; she’s naked and his cock is still out. It pushes between her legs, just as hard and thick as promised, and she automatically adjusts so that the head shoves impatiently up into her as she sinks down.

They slow in shock, and she feels in stop-motion the slide between her legs, the bump hitting just off-centre, and then, gloriously, she feels herself slowly begin to sink down. It’s always a burn to take him. Always. She feels the pushing-opening feeling of the thick head beginning to nudge inside, and she tilts her hips down to take him some more. He’s staring at her face when she looks up, his mouth open in an O of shock and his eyes glazing. Unconsciously, his hips roll upwards and slide another delicious few fractions in, opening her further. She bounces a little on his lap, gasps, feels herself sink and stall as his hands close tight and hold her in place; stopped from taking him any deeper than the tip, she wriggles around and flexes her thigh muscles, dragging forth a low, pained groan from his lips.

“Do that again and I won’t be able to help fucking you,” he growls. She whines slightly, panting, and does it again.

His hands tighten and he pulls her down. Oh, he’s in, more and more and she’s mewling now, but he stops and lifts her again like she’s a toy. Pulls her down and she gets the message and braces her knees better to slide herself along the top inch of his cock, fucking the barest tip of him.

“You want more than this,” she says between harsh breaths. “You want to be as deep as possible, now. I can see it in your eyes. You could do it. Let go. Let me go. I’ll sink so fucking deep on you, you won’t be able to help coming. Dave, please, let me go, you need more…”

“I do,” he agrees, and he’s on the edge. She could goad him past his self-control. “I could. I’d take you now.”

“You’d take me now,” she repeats. “Right now.” She’s rippling, tightening, and thinks _fuck,_ because if she comes like this he’ll take it as a win and back off to keep playing. “Dave, now, shit, _now_ —”, but too late because he’s realized what’s happening, and he’s pulling away. Lifting her up a little, his cock awkwardly poking out of her panties. She presses close and kisses him sloppily: “I thought you’d want to fuck me.”

“I do,” he says, and she thinks distantly that he’s won. She’ll do anything for him now.

“Why not now?” She tries not to make it a whine, but when he inches closer and grinds up into her, hard enough that they both feel the rush of wetness she responds with adding to the mess between his legs. Just for good measure, she rolls her hips sideways, making sure to catch his dick; making sure he feels how her muscles are unrepentantly fluttering now as she teeters on just doing nothing but begging for it. Which is good. Because she knows what he’s going to ask, even though he’s gotten distracted and is staring down at his crotch as he grinds her a little harder against himself.

And then he leans closer, thick and hard in her panties, and snarls, “I want you to beg.”

Wherever she goes, it’s not here. She a shivering, horny mess, almost completely fucked out without being fucked, but his hands are hot points of focus on her body and his voice tethers her. She wants him. God, she wants him. When she comes back to herself, she’s not the only one a little lost. The music is playing still, softly. They’re both on their side, laying on the stupid rug, kissing like they’re running out of time and basically doing everything short of fucking each other through the thin cotton of her panties. She’s pretty sure if she wraps her legs around his and pulls him into her hard enough—which she does—she can feel his cock inside her still encased in them. And she can, just a little, and he’s almost sobbing with either pain or pleasure or a decadent mixture of both.

“I knew you’d beg,” he gasps into her hair, wrapping his arms around her so his hands circle the back of her skull.

“I’m not begging,” she replies, and rolls her hips once, twice, his hard dick pressed against her clit. Three times and she comes slowly and barely, for however many times this is, as he holds her and coaxes her through it. _I’m not begging,_ repeated as he sits up and lifts her like a toy, setting her aside while he slide the panties off. There are red lines in the skin of his hips where the elastic has cut. _I’m not begging,_ she thinks, but she bobs down and kisses one of those red lines and then licks the painfully hard head of his cock, rewarded by watching pre-come bead up and spool down the side, more than she’s seen before from him. He’s beautifully aroused.

“No,” he squeezes out, and she looks at his face and sees nothing familiar there. He looks completely lost. They’ve never pushed each other this face before. He picks her up again—she helps him a little as he sits with his back to the couch and legs spread, turning her so her back is to his chest and settling her down in his lap. His cock pokes her in the ass once before he tugs it forward to nestle warmly up the middle of her. Blankly, she stares down and watches that line of pre-come drip onto her, mixing with her mess. “We play until you beg. No fucking until then.”

“You’re a bastard.” She means it. He’s a _monster_. She tightens her legs around him and slides up and down, making him squeak and snap his hands around her hip— _behave_!

 _No,_ she replies, so he lifts her again. This time, the unfamiliar look is back. Begging or not, she’s pushed him past the limits of his sanity. It’s a smug feeling, to know she’s taken a man as smart as him and shifted all his brains to the dick he’s—

Oh. _Oh_.

He seats her soundly back on his lap and his cock is pushed inside her. Not all the way. She could wiggle down more onto it. When she looks at him, one eyebrow raised, he’s staring at their laps and looking enchanted. It’s adorably male of him. If this was his way of denying her the chance to tease him, his dick is stupider than she thought.

“I thought you said we weren’t fucking yet?” she asks, and bounces a little just to test. He barks, a shocked noise, and stops her with two wide hands on her hips.

“We’re not,” he lies to himself. His eyes are huge and his breath is insanely fast. “We’re sitting. We’re playing.” Playing isn’t quite the word; he’s slipped his fingers inside her as well.

She doesn’t dissuade him, she’s happy with him lying to himself like this. “Okay,” she agrees, and settles herself comfortably with only a slight moan as he stretches her, filling her, his hips jerking up and pushing him further in. “Let’s play.”

But the next game passes in a haze. When he reaches for the cards, he pushes deeper. When she twists around to hide her hand from him, she slips lower. She bets _thrust_ and wins. He does, and then again, and once more, and she has to stop him because his eyes are glazing and she’s almost fully seated. They’re disgustingly, helplessly wet—she’s dripped on him, on his carpet—it’s going to be a mess to clean.

He bets _if you lose, I’ll pull out_ and loses again. She decides there’s only one way for her to claim her winnings.

And then he’s as deep as he can be and she’s so so deliciously full, so painfully open, warm and hungry and wiggling against him with him slumped against her back with his hands tight around her hips. So deep and they’re not moving and she wants him to and never wants him out. But he’s frightening silent.

“Dave?” she whispers. The music has stopped, finally. The wine is empty. Her cards slip from her hands; his breath is wet on her shoulder.

“I could just…” he mumbles, and thrusts. She sees stars. There are white crescent shapes left in his legs when she unpeels her fingers from them and his breathing is _fucked_. “Ah, fuck, love, _fuck_ , that was gorgeous—” He losing it, she can tell: “—do that ah-ah-oh _god_ —” She did it again. He’s stroking now, long, smooth, bold strokes that strike at the heart of her and she’s only going to need a few of these to finish this—but he stops and she almost screams his name in frustration: “Em, tell me something. Something you’ve never told me. Things you want to tell me.” He’s trembling so hard she’s trembling with him, his thighs bunching under her and so close to the edge he’s dragging himself back from with sheer, stubborn willpower that she can feel him rippling inside her. Thinks maybe he might have come, just a little, because not all of this mess is hers, and she’s had him aroused on and off for hours now. “Tell me. Please.”

She swallows. She has a major kink for dirty talk, but suspects his is bigger. “I like to give up control,” she pants, and that’s true—he fucks her with one hard stroke that she almost buckles over. “I like to tell them I’m helpless—” not true, but they usually believe it: “—, that I need it—” true, and he rewards her with two more gorgeous thrusts: “—that your cock is perfect for me, that you’re going to fuck me and fill me until I come over and over—” She’s got him. He’s gone. He’s thrusting mindlessly, breathing ragged, heart hammering, and they hit the ground and roll tighter until she’s practically on her knees with him slamming into her from behind: “—that your cock is all I need, _all_ I need, and that you want to prove that, would prove it, in front of anyone, oh god, _Dave_ —”

He stalls out, bottoms out with a grunt and a groan, words rasping from his lips like they _hurt_ to voice: “ _Emily_?”

She twists to look at him. His eyes are wild; he’s pulsing inside her but not coming yet. _How_.

And then his hands are wrapped tight around her belly and he bows over her, close, and growls, “Feel that? How hard you’ve made me?” _Nod_ goes her head because her brains are elsewhere. “Everyone can see this. _Everyone_.”

She blanks out for a second. Comes back sobbing a little, something warm and wet running down her trembling legs. Closes her eyes and pictures it perfectly; they’re not alone. Shocked eyes are on them. He’s not done.

“You don’t get off on voyeurism. It’s the control, Prentiss.” _Prentiss_. Like they’re at work. She begins to shake. “It’s the control you’ve given up. Letting me fuck you here, in front of the people you respect the most, letting them see you like _this_ … see how _filthy_ you are…”

“Holy fuck, Dave…”

Fingers slide between her legs as his cock jerks inside her. “They can see this. How wet you are… what I’ve done to you. Does Aaron know? Can he see?”

Her eyes are still shut but she can see perfectly. “Yes.” Yes, he can. His eyes are wide, locked on hers. He’s hard. He’s so fucking hard but he won’t touch himself. Not in front of them. He too fucking _composed_.

“Does he know what I’m about to do? That I’ve gotten you so ready, so perfect—”

“Oh fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck_ , Dave—”

“—does he _know_?”

She almost screams it. She’s not sure if she’s coming or going anymore, and she’s going to have a killer fucking hangover in the morning— “Yes! Yes, oh fuck, yes—he knows, he can see, he’s _watching_ —”

She’s done. If she’d blanked out before, this is total recall. Goodnight, Prentiss. She distantly hears herself cry out, distantly feels him fucking her through it, distantly realizes that he’s basically supporting her by now; distantly realizes she’s _done_. She’s talking back, she thinks, almost insensibly—about how ready she is, how hard he is, how gorgeous his dick, how much better he is for her than Aaron—and the only thing she’s aware of is Dave leaning down and tugging her mouth around to his. He kisses her.

He whispers, “Make sure he sees,” and then he comes with a cry that’s loud enough see feels it in her bones. It goes on and on and on until he’s a twitching, sloppy mess of a man behind her with his body misfiring and his come oozing down her leg. She’s uncomfortably full, vaguely sore, and she really fucking needs to piss.

They’re silent for a second, except for their ragged breathing.

“My head hurts,” he says finally, and she begins to laugh helplessly. “What?”

“Oh, you’re so getting written up for _this,”_ she manages, pulling away from him with a wince at the sound it makes. “Oh my god, I’m _never_ going to be able to look imaginary Hotch in the eye again…”

Rossi smirks, wiping his leg down absentmindedly with his eyes darting to the bedroom. Sleep, now, after the bathroom. She needs a wash first. She’ll make him do it. “Ah well,” he says. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

And he leaves her there, blinking.

“First for what?” she calls after him, but he doesn’t answer. “Dave? First for _what_?”


End file.
